Ado
by Connie Willis
The Monday before spring break I told my English lit class we were going to do Shakespeare. The weather in Colorado is usually wretched this time of year. We get all the snow the ski resorts needed in December, use up our scheduled snow days, and end up going an extra week in June. The forecast on the Today show hadn’t predicted any snow till Saturday, but with luck it would arrive sooner.
My announcement generated a lot of excitement. Paula dived for her corder and rewound it to make sure she’d gotten my every word, Edwin Sumner looked smug, and Delilah snatched up her books and stomped out, slamming the door so hard it woke Rick up. I passed out the release/refusal slips and told them they had to have them back in by Wednesday. I gave one to Sharon to give Delilah.
“Shakespeare is considered one of our greatest writers, possibly the greatest,” I said for the benefit of Paula’s corder. “On Wednesday I will be talking about Shakespeare’s life, and on Thursday and Friday we will be reading his work.”
Wendy raised her hand. “Are we going to read all the plays?”
I sometimes wonder where Wendy has been the last few years—certainly not in this school, possibly not in this universe. “What we’re studying hasn’t been decided yet,” I said. “The principal and I are meeting tomorrow.”
“It had better be one of the tragedies,” Edwin said darkly.
By lunch the news was all over the school. “Good luck,” Greg Jefferson, the biology teacher, said in the teachers’ lounge. “I just got done doing evolution.”
“Is it really that time of year again?” Karen Miller said. She teaches American lit across the hall. “I’m not even up to the Civil War yet.”
“It’s that time of year again,” I said. “Can you take my class during your free period tomorrow? I’ve got to meet with Harrows.”
“I can take them all morning. Just have your kids come into my room tomorrow. We’re doing ‘Thanatopsis.’ Another thirty kids won’t matter.”
“ ‘Thanatopsis’?” I said, impressed. “The whole thing?”
“All but lines ten and sixty-eight. It’s a terrible poem, you know. I don’t think anybody understands it well enough to protest. And I’m not telling anybody what the title means.”
“Cheer up,” Greg said. “Maybe we’ll have a blizzard.”
Tuesday was clear, with a forecast of temps in the sixties. Delilah was outside the school when I got there, wearing a red “Seniors Against Devil Worship in the Schools” T-shirt and shorts. She was carrying a picket sign that said, “Shakespeare is Satan’s Spokesman.” “Shakespeare” and “Satan” were both misspelled.
“We’re not starting Shakespeare till tomorrow,” I told her. “There’s no reason for you not to be in class. Ms. Miller is teaching Thanatopsis.’ ”
“Not lines ten and sixty-eight, she’s not. Besides, Bryant was a Theist, which is the same thing as a Satanist.” She handed me her refusal slip and a fat manila envelope. “Our protests are in there.” She lowered her voice. “What does the word ‘thanatopsis’ really mean?”
“It’s an Indian word. It means, ‘One who uses her religion to ditch class and get a tan.’ ”
I went inside, got Shakespeare out of the vault in the library, and went into the office. Ms. Harrows already had the Shakespeare file and her box of Kleenex out. “Do you have to do this?” she said, blowing her nose.
“As long as Edwin Sumner’s in my class, I do. His mother’s head of the President’s Task Force on Lack of Familiarity with the Classics.” I added Delilah’s list of protests to the stack and sat down at the computer.
“Well, it may be easier than we think,” she said. “There have been a lot of suits since last year, which takes care of Macbeth, The Tempest, Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Winter’s Tale, and Richard III.”
“Delilah’s been a busy girl,” I said. I fed in the unexpurgated disk and the excise and reformat programs. “I don’t remember there being any witchcraft in Richard III.”
She sneezed and grabbed for another Kleenex. “There’s not. That was a slander suit. Filed by his great-great-grand-something. He claims there’s no conclusive proof that Richard III killed the little princes. It doesn’t matter anyway. The Royal Society for the Restoration of Divine Right of Kings has an injunction against all the history plays. What’s the weather supposed to be like?”
“Terrible,” I said. “Warm and sunny.” I called up the catalog and deleted Henry IV, Parts I and II, and the rest of her list. “The Taming of the Shrew?”
“Angry Women’s Alliance. Also Merry Wives of Windsor, Romeo and Juliet, and Love’s Labour’s Lost.”
“Othello? Never mind. I know that one. The Merchant of Venice? The Anti-Defamation League?”
“No. American Bar Association. And Morticians International. They object to the use of the word ‘casket’ in Act III.” She blew her nose.
It took us first and second period to deal with the plays and most of the third to finish the sonnets. “I’ve got a class fourth period and then lunch duty,” I said. “We’ll have to finish up the rest of them this afternoon.”
“Is there anything left for this afternoon?” Ms. Harrows asked.
“As You Like It and Hamlet,” I said. “Good heavens, how did they miss Hamlet?”
“Are you sure about As You Like It?” Ms. Harrows said, leafing through her stack. “I thought somebody’d filed a restraining order against it.”
“Probably the Mothers Against Transvestites,” I said. “Rosalind dresses up like a man in Act II.”
“No, here it is. The Sierra Club. ‘Destructive attitudes toward the environment.’ ” She looked up. “What destructive attitudes?”
“Orlando carves Rosalind’s name on a tree.” I leaned back in my chair so I could see out the window. The sun was still shining maliciously down. “I guess we go with Hamlet. This should make Edwin and his mother happy.”
“We’ve still got the line-by-lines to go,” Ms. Harrows said. “I think my throat is getting sore.”
I got Karen to take my afternoon classes. It was sophomore lit and we’d been doing Beatrix Potter—all she had to do was pass out a worksheet on Squirrel Nutkin. I had outside lunch duty. It was so hot I had to take my jacket off. The College Students for Christ were marching around the school carrying picket signs that said, “Shakespeare was a Secular Humanist.”
Delilah was lying on the front steps, reeking of suntan oil. She waved her “Shakespeare is Satan’s Spokesman” sign languidly at me. “ ‘Ye have sinned a great sin,’ ” she quoted. “ ‘Blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book which thou has written.’ Exodus Chapter 32, Verse 30.”
“First Corinthians 13:3,” I said. “ ‘Though I give my body to be burned and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.’ ”
“I called the doctor,” Ms. Harrows said. She was standing by the window looking out at the blazing sun. “He thinks I might have pneumonia.”
I sat down at the computer and fed in Hamlet. “Look on the bright side. At least we’ve got the E and R programs. We don’t have to do it by hand the way we used to.”
She sat down behind the stack. “How shall we do this? By group or by line?”
“We might as well take it from the top.”
“Line one. ‘Who’s there?’ The National Coalition Against Contractions.”
“Let’s do it by group,” I said.